Street Game (GhostWalkers, #8)(3)

There was a long, deadly silence. Mack could hear her breathing, her heart racing. There was no struggle once he’d pinned her; she lay perfectly still beneath him. For a moment he was afraid he had knocked her unconscious, but her breathing was too ragged.

“Is anyone else up here?” He whispered the words in her ear.

She shook her head.

Kane and the others began a standard search pattern. McKinley hoped she was telling the truth. She smelled fresh and faintly exotic, her skin satin smooth, petal soft. The scent, the feel of her, was oddly familiar. Too familiar. His body recognized her before his brain did, reacting with enough testosterone for his entire unit, mixed with more adrenaline than any of them could possibly handle.

McKinley slowly, carefully, eased his weight until he was certain he wasn’t hurting her, yet still kept her pinned. As each member of the team barked, “Clear,” he shifted enough to get a good look at her face. One leg remained firmly over her thighs, a warning not to move.

Behind them, a lamp was switched on. “All clear, sir.” That was young Paul. His men were all staring, yet trying not to stare. The woman was in a long nightgown. See-through. One of those diaphanous, filmy things that clung to every curve and sent a jackhammer through the middle of a man’s skull. Her gown had pulled up her thigh, revealing a more than generous expanse of gleaming skin.

She had tousled hair, a riot of curls, and large, haunting, sapphire-colored eyes. He would know her anywhere, anyplace.

Jaimie. He said her name, at least he thought he said it, but no sound emerged. Maybe he’d just breathed her name. He touched her thick mane of silky, midnight black hair, his fingers sliding into one of the curls and tugging, letting the strands slide through the pads of his fingers, trying to regain the breath she’d stolen.

“Get off me, McKinley.” The fear was in her voice, but she was striving for control. “What are you doing here? Hi, boys. I missed—most of you,” she greeted from the floor.

“Hey, Jaimie,” Kane said.

“Man, Jaimie,” Javier added. “Sweet damn security system. I should have recognized your work.”

“Great to see you, Jaimie,” Brian Hutton added with a little grin. “Although we’re seeing more of you than brothers are comfortable with.”

“What the f*ck are you wearing?” Mack demanded. Lust punched hard and mean, his entire body tightening, his cock hard as a rock. He was furious with her, scared for her. Shocked at seeing her. What was going on? She had f*cking left him. Left him. Disappeared without a trace.

His hand gripped her throat and he trapped her there on the floor, letting her feel the strength of his anger—of his need. He leaned close. “Did you find yourself, Jaimie? Did you find everything you were looking for?” Did you miss me the way I missed you? Did you bring my heart back, because I have a damn big hole where it should be.

He stared down into her eyes—eyes he’d always fall into, eyes he’d always drown in. Damn you, Jaimie. Damn you to hell for this. The attraction was worse than it had ever been, flooding him until his body was no longer his and discipline and control had gone out the window.

“Don’t you dare look at me that way.”

She swallowed hard. He felt the movement against the palm of his hand. “What way?”

“Like you’re afraid of me. Like I’m going to hurt you.” There was panic in her eyes, fear almost amounting to terror, and it sickened him.

“Mack.” Kane’s voice was very soft. “You’ve got your hand around her throat and you’re sitting on her. That could be interpreted by some as an aggressive action.”

Mack hissed, his head snapping around. “Anyone else have anything brilliant they want to contribute?”

No one else was that stupid—or brave.

He loosened his hold on her throat but retained possession, feeling the satisfyingly frantic beat of her pulse in the center of his palm. “What the hell are you wearing?” he demanded again. “You might as well be wearing nothing at all.”

“It’s called a nightgown,” Jaimie replied, her voice sarcastic. “Mack, let me up. In case no one’s ever told you, you’re heavy.”

He was solid muscle. And right now every single inch of him was as hard as a rock. Moving was going to be painful, one way or another.

Sighing, because everyone was going to know exactly what she did to him, he shifted very carefully. “Get some clothes on.” Abruptly, Mack was on his feet, pulling her up with him. A quick flick of his eyes and his men found the ceiling interesting.

They were grinning like idiots. All of them. Even Kane. Mack resisted swearing at them.

“Have the decency to turn around,” he ordered the others.

Morons. Every single one. He didn’t turn around. He glared at her. Daggers. “That’s a hell of a thing to wear unless you’re entertaining, Jaimie. Are you entertaining?” His hand slid down to the satisfying hilt of his knife. He’d do some entertaining of his own if some son of a bitch was moving in on Jaimie. Not waiting for an answer, he tore off his jacket and threw it at her. “Cover up.”

“Go to hell, Mack. This is my home. My bedroom, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Still, she slipped her arms into the jacket and inhaled, rubbing her cheek along the material without thinking, and then stalked across the room to yank open a drawer. “You’re a long way from home.” Jaimie made the observation as she donned a pair of charcoal sweatpants. “Not to mention you’re a little overdressed for these parts.”